I've slept with him.
In my mind.
In my mind, I've fallen asleep
in so many pairs of arms
Imagined breathing in the scent of so many people as I doze,
whom I can only trust in my daydreams.
I only really breathe in dust.
But he, she, they, it,
are unsuitable.
As realistic as I try to make these faces,
my reality won't kiss these faces anytime soon.
But I'll sleep again.
I am tired of it.
This frustrated pastime pins itself it's subjects,
tapes them,
their familiarities to her, mine, his arms
that hold me through every movie, and dance with me when I am alone,
or watch me from a corner,
longingly.
These toys will be secure, more so than I,
because they are safe.
They aren't disposable;
I need them for my flipbook.
